


I Owe You

by aiden_13



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiden_13/pseuds/aiden_13
Summary: A Wasteland!reader x Junkrat story! Non-binary reader as always :) SFWish (lots of swearing and mild violence and mild gore warning!) I wanted to put the reader in a more commanding/authoritative/badass position and integrate them into the world and story line as well! Enjoy~





	I Owe You

“You stay where you are and don’t you move or else I’ll blow your fucking knee caps off,” you aim your pump-action shotgun, steady and true at the intruder’s left leg. 

A tall, thin figure stands at the gate, hunching slightly. The porch lantern’s light didn’t reach out that far, but you could swear there was a soft glow coming from their head. 

No one came out here with good intentions. Especially in the dead of the night. No one but desperate Junkers that the Junkertown medics won’t touch or dying Junkers with nothing to lose. Occasionally, a mutated dingo. 

The figure emits a nervous giggle, “Darl’, I have a whole lotta’ explosives on me so unless you want a matching peg-leg, you shouldn’t shoot me either.”

You scowl. You knew that laugh. Lowering your gun and taking the gas lantern off its hook, you step forward, gravel and sand crunching underfoot, “Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t the infamous Junkrat himself at my door.”

He spits out a mouthful of blood and gives you the brightest grin, “The one and only.” 

The gentle glow turned out to be the singed, smoldering embers of his hair. The modified bandolier he’s so famous for sporting lacks several of his bombs; in fact, he’s missing that notorious grenade of his too. The lantern’s light reveals a host of injuries: a blackened swollen eye, bloodied nose, bloody spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth… he’s clutching his side and there’s blood, there’s so much more blood. 

“…Does the Queen know you’re here?” You grimace, turning his chin with your thumb, perusing the damage in the low light, 

“Fuck, I hope not,” he staggers, leaning against your gate. “Then again, I kinda’ left an obvious trail to follow.” 

You pause. The Queen and her goons know better than to come around here. But Junkrat had recently gone and gotten an international bounty placed on his head. You don’t need this mess right now. You turn away. 

Junkrat takes in a sharp breath, “Look, please, *your name*!”

Your eyes widen and you turn back so sharply he almost fell back. You hiss, more venomously than you realize, “How. the. fuck. do you know my real name?”

He gulps, “Mako.”

A “tch!” leaves your lips before you could stop it.

The young Junker lurches forward, grabbing your shoulder with his free hand, “I didn’t know who else to ask. He told me about you before passing out, now won’t wake up or nothin’. Please. He’s all I got.” 

Mako Rutledge. That was a name you didn’t hear for a long time. That was a name you had hated, cursed, and spat. A name and a person you didn’t know you could forgive. His rebellion took everything from you. Your parents stood by his side and for what? An irradiated wasteland. You didn’t get to bury them. Their ashes mixed with the rubble of the Omnium and now, their crushed bones are the foundation of Junkertown. Vile fiends and murderous thieves pass over their pulverized remains everyday. Pissing, puking, shitting, fucking, and god knows what else over their remains…Over the countless remains and ashes of dozens of good people. 

But he survived. Why did he survive?

With a frustrated groan, you open the gate and stoop under Junkrat’s frame, taking his weight onto your right shoulder. 

“No, we gotta’ get to Roadie,” Junkrat cocks his head back, towards Mako’s farm. 

“No. We need to stop your bleeding first,” you push the door open with your foot.

“I’m fine,” he coughs, spraying you with his bloody spit. 

“Yeah, sure,” you lay him on your bed. You strike a match and light the gas lamp by your bedside. The gentle flickering flame make the shadows dance ominously in your shack. Thick bundles of dried herbs hung above the bed, their fragrance soothing you, focusing you. 

You pluck a broad leaf off the closest bundle and press it to the Junker’s lips.

“Chew,” you command. 

He hesitates for a brief moment but opens his mouth and takes it, making a small noise of surprise at its tastiness. 

“Move your hand, I need to see the wound,” you bring the light closer to his side. He obliges, slowly, wincing. The cut runs along his sides, but thankfully the knife seems to have glanced off the ribs. Superficial damage. 

“Some little shit had a knife, I didn’t see it.”

“And if you had seen it, you would’ve be more careful?” You raise a brow, rummaging through your med kit. 

“…well.. yeah,” he murmurs, still having enough energy to muster indignation. 

“You can spit the leaf out once it loses its flavor,” you bring the light closer, double checking a bottle’s label.

He spits it out right next to you. You make a face.

“What?”

Resisting the urge to hurt him more, you uncork the bottle with your teeth and soak the gauze, rubbing the pungent alcohol all over your hands as well. You lean in, “Ready yourself, this is going to burn.”

“Trust me, I’ve been through- FUCK!” He howls as you lay the gauze into his bloodied side.

“Shut UP before you get us killed,” you hiss. 

“Give a man a better warning next time!” He hisses back. 

“Oh trust me, the next part is going to be worst. Got any black powder?”

“Plenty, check me belt, should be a small pouch there… why?”

You wipe the gauze over the wound, removing as much of the caked on blood as you can. The air sours with the smell of coppery blood and pungent alcohol.

“We’re going to seal the wound. I don’t have a good needle or any thread to patch that up,” you rifle through his belt’s pockets, finding the pouch easily. You sprinkle the fine powder on the cleaned wound. 

Junkrat’s good eye widened in horrified realization, “Fuck… fuck. Fucking hell. No wonder no one comes out here.”

You strike a match and pause, a look of utmost frustration on your face, “Want a stick to bite on?”

“No, just-just gimme’ that,” he takes the bottle from you and takes a deep, deep swig. “Do it.”

You gently touch the flame to the black dust and it crackles, lights up, pops! Junkrat screams, his hand grabbing your forearm, his frame buckling on the bed. You wait for his thrashing to subside before grabbing fresh (well, relatively fresh) gauze to bandage the wound. 

He’s panting, swearing in between each breath. The wound looks good, the fire cauterized the cut and you could see no fresh blood seeping out. You pluck a few more leaves from the hanging bundles and chew them into a thick paste. He sighs with relief as you spread the mixture onto his wound and a bit on his black eye.

“You’re a fucking demon that’s what you are,” he pants, taking another drink. 

You take the bottle back, “And you’re drinking all the disinfectant I have. You’re welcome by the way.” 

You soak a rag with the alcohol and begin dabbing his face. A gentle pinch of his nose bridge (he protests with a scowl) confirms it’s not broken. Thank heavens for small miracles. 

“Fuck. Mako, we need to get to Mako,” he tries bolting upright but winces at the pain, falling back down. 

“No, you need to lie down and I’ll go to see Mako… his, his farm is still in the same place, yeah?” 

“Her lackeys might be there, waitin’ for him or me,” Junkrat protests. 

“I can shoot, but I can’t babysit an injured idiot and shoot at the same time,” you adjust his pillow for him. You go to your crafting table and rummage the drawers for more ammo. 

“What’ll you do if they outnumber you?” He calls after you. 

“I can handle it. I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” you slip some homemade smoke bombs into your right pocket.

You refill your kit, throwing in another bottle of “disinfectant” and a bundle of herbs. You grab some pale pink blossoms off the potted plant on your windowsill and return to Junkrat’s side. 

“Chew and spit?” He stares at them in your palm.

“Eh, you can eat these,” you shrug. “Should help you sleep.” 

He leans over and you expect him to take the flowers in his hand. Instead he just pulls your palm in closer and laps them up with a quick lick of his tongue. You shiver a bit and feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You could swear his grin turned just a little wicked. 

Without missing a beat, you wipe your palm on your pants, “I’ll go check on… on Mako. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

The flowers are already working and he nods groggily.

Just as you turn to go, you hear him call out, “Wait… wait…”

“Hmm?” 

“Take this,” he taps his bandolier. “There’s still a couple live ones.”

You step back towards him, “Which ones?”

“These…” his good eye flutters, trying to keep open. He chuckles, “It might be the flowers…or the drink, or both, but you’re a real looker when you’re not mad at me.”

You pause briefly before unclipping the bombs and dropping them into your satchel’s side pockets. You give him the gentlest of slaps, “It’s the head injury talking. Sleep.”

You can’t tell if its the drowsiness but he leans against your hand, nuzzling into it. You lay him down gently. He’s kind of cute. When he’s not talking. 

Stocked and ready to go, you lock the door and get on your motorcycle. It’s time to pay Uncle Mako a visit. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You stop a good hundred meters out from the edge of Rutledge’s farm. Sure enough, a bunch of the Queen’s goons were in front of the front porch, speaking in hushed voices. You chew your lips pensively. They all sport the Queen’s mark: a black armband with a crowned skull. 

“Everything’s cleared?” The center-most man asked. 

“Yeah, we checked the perimeter and everything. All of the traps are deactivated.”

“What about the porch?”

The group coughs and shuffles about. 

“…I’ll go check the porch,” a twiggy fellow approaches the porch, slowly, carefully. 

You pause, sliding a hand down into your bag. Licking your finger, you test the air. No breeze, perfect. Now, just to get closer. You creep along the abandoned shed, coming closer to the group. 

“Any minute now, Crusher,” the man in the center said. 

The tiny, wiry fellow, apparently called Crusher gave an indignant whine. You hear a click. He scampers back to the group, “Done, that was the last one.” 

You almost chuckle out loud. No that wasn’t. 

“Alright, move in, we’re gonna’ be 25 million dollars richer tonight boys,” the leader calls. He hauls his weapon upward and blasts a grenade into the door. 

Wrong move. The wooden exterior shatters to reveal a steel plate door behind. 

“Fuck’s sake, they’ll know we’re here now! Alright, bring out the big stuff.” 

A very strong-looking woman hoists a crude rocket launcher onto her shoulder. You take a deep breath, no time to waste now, so you sneak closer and closer until you are meters behind them. You strike the bomb along the dry wood of the shed, friction igniting the match-like wick tip. With a grunt you chuck it square in the middle of the group. 

“What the fuck is that?” The leader stomps towards the little thing. It’s leaking spurts of gray smoke.

Come on, come on. 

“Spread out! Someone’s here…” The leader stomps on the bomb’s wick, trying to put it out. 

Oh, bad idea, friend. The moment his boot came into contact with the bomb, it exploded into a giant plume of gray-blue smoke. The scent of burnt pine needles filled the air. Taking advantage of the situation, you dart past the group, striking another smoke bomb and dropping it in the thick of it for good measure. You step onto the porch and your finger tips scramble for the secret latch. 

“They’re on the porch! I heard foot steps!!” A voice shouts amidst coughs. 

Oh god, not like this. Come on, come on. The door slides open and a heavy hand pulls you inside. You tumble inside and spring to your feet, one of Junkrat’s bombs in your hands. 

“Long time no see *your name*,” Mako stands before you. 

“Uncle,” you nod. This. This is awkward. “How’d you know it was me?”

“There’s only a couple people who know how to make an herbal smoke bomb like that.”

“Yeah, and most of them are dead,” you couldn’t resist commenting. 

Mako’s quiet for a moment, “…yeah, how’s Jamison?”

“Jami-who?”

“Junkrat. His name’s Jamison. Jamison Fawkes.”

“…He’s… he’s one of the Fawkes’ kids?”

“The only one that survived. Doesn’t remember anything. Took me years to track him down and turns out he got himself into royal shit.” 

“Well, fuck,” you pace about a bit, “He’s uh, he’s fine. He lost a fair amount of blood but got that patched up, and he’s pretty bruised, but nothing’s broken.”

“Ah, good, good to hear,” Mako limps back. 

“What about you?” You observe his gait. 

“I’m fine,” Mako takes a seat and sighs. 

You cross your arms, and peer at him through the mask. You barely remember what he looks like without it. You were so little back then.

“You’re staring,” he remarks. 

“Yeah. Jamison… Jamison told me you’re hurt.” 

“It was that nonsense,” he gestures towards the kitchen table. “How many of them outside?”

You move towards the table, “Five. I dropped two bombs, that should be more than enough.” 

“Good,” he grunts. 

You examine the crude little darts on the table, “Barbaro sap?”

He nods. 

“Must be concentrated if a couple are enough to knock you out, Uncle,” you chuckle and immediately bit your tongue. It was so natural, so easy to talk to him. 

“Jamison overreacts. I’m fine.” 

“You can say that. Fucker staggered all the way to my place, bleeding as he went.”

Mako shakes his head.

You walk back and do a quick walk-around, “You sure you’re alright?”

“I have the worst headache on earth…probably the darts, but I’m fine.” 

He’s telling the truth. For the most part, “And the limp?”

“Hip’s killing me. I’m getting old.”

You flip open the satchel and produce a couple herb bundles, “For the pain.”

He grunts, motioning towards the kitchen. You place the bundles there, and find yourself leaning against the table. Pausing. Fists balled up. 

He sighs, “Just say it.”

You march back to him, holding back the hot angry tears that threaten to spill, “You had no fucking right to tell Junkrat about me. You’ve been dead to me ever since that day. How dare you tell anyone about me? About us?”

Mako nods, speaking softly, “I owe it to the Fawkes to make sure he wasn’t going to die. I told him to go to you.”

“I almost did it, you know?” You’re shaking. “I almost turned him away. Almost let him die at my door step” 

Mako’s quiet, before speaking firmly, “You’re too good to do that.”

You collapse to the ground, crying, “This isn’t fucking fair. Every time I put the past behind me, it fucking comes back. You come back.” 

Your tears soak the dirty, dusty floors and the sobs come out in heaves. You cry for what feels like an embarrassingly long time. Mako is quiet the entire time. Finally the sobs subside into exhausted sniffs. You’re taking deeper breaths.

“… We have probably 20 minutes before they wake up,” he gets up and opens the door. 

You mentally kick yourself for being so vulnerable in front of him and pick yourself up off the ground. 

Outside, Mako is… or rather, Roadhog, is gathering the limp bodies and piling them together. 

“Are you going to kill them?” You ask. 

“Nope, tie ‘em up and leave ‘em at the gate.”

You nod, “Let the Queen kill them herself. Nice.”

“Thank you,” he grunts. 

The two of you set to quiet work. With rough cord, you secure each goon’s hands behind their back, bind their ankles together, and Mako dumps them into his motorcycle’s sidecar. 

You give him one final look, too tired to be angry. 

“Here,” he hands you a grenade launcher, “It’s Junkrat’s.” 

“I’ll… I’ll return Junkrat when he gets better. I’ll see you…Roadhog,” the name is unfamiliar in your mouth. 

He nods and you turn away. Time to get back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You return to your shack. The sky begins to pale and brighten, foretelling the sun’s arrival. As achy and weary as you are, you can’t afford to slip up. You check the perimeter of the shack and the stone fence. No tracks, good. You push through the gates and do a quick walk-around of the shack. Only your tracks and Junkrat’s tracks where you dragged him. Very good. 

You push the door, still locked. Sighing, leaning into the frame, you unlock the door and stagger in. The junker is still knocked out, you hear his gentle snoring. You practically collapse into the chair by the bed, letting the weapons and bag tumble to the ground with a clack and a thump. 

“Oh, Jamison,” you sigh, gently turning his head with both of your hands. 

He’s not bad to look at when he’s sleeping. His wild expression calmed and soothed by the medicinal flowers. The swelling around his black eye had gone down significantly, not bad for a night’s rest. 

“No one messes with the Queen around here, you know that,” you murmur, gently feeling the bones in his face. Your thumb pads trace the edges of his jaw, looking for bumps. Your fingers move to his eye socket: gently, gently tracing around the black eye. The herbal paste had dried and chipped off in his sleep. He’s lucky, nothing’s broken. 

He blinks and shuffles beneath your touch. You retract your hands quickly. 

“Good morning,” you clear your throat.

“‘Ow’s Roadie?”

“He’s fine. You were quite dramatic. You were far more hurt than he was.”

“But the? But he…he wouldn’t wake up, even when I punched the bastard square in the face.”

That explains the headache. 

“Yeah, tends to happen when you get shot with one of these,” you shuffle in your bag and produce a crude dart, “Careful with the tip.”

He chuckles, “Phrasing.”

You roll your eyes but allow yourself a smile, “I have something for you.”

“Hmm?”

You lift up the grenade launcher. It’s a bit worst for wear, but nothing a bit of love and affection can’t fix. 

He gives a dramatic gasp, feigning a tear wipe, “I could kiss you.” 

“You definitely could,” you nod, exaggerated solemness in your voice. 

His breath hitches for a moment, smiling at you, “Wow, you really are a looker.” 

You smile, far too much for your own liking, “How are you feeling?”

“Slept like a baby,” he grins, “I don’t know what the fuck you smeared on me but m’side feels much better.” 

“Good,” you’re smiling like an idiot. Is it because of the sleep-deprivation? It’s certainly not because Jamison, er, Junkrat is looking at you. You tell yourself it’s because of the sleep-deprivation. 

“Sorry, by the way,” he clears his throat. “I know you and Roadie have bad blood and whatnot.”

“It’s fine…” your voice softens. “Your real name is Jamison?”

He scratches his head, “Yeah, only thing I really remember from when I was younger.”

You feel something catch in your throat, something like sadness. Something like nostalgia. You lean in and take his lips in yours. You could feel him hesitate, stunned, before melting into the kiss and kissing you back, greedily. He tastes sour and fresh, like the herbs you gave him to chew. 

When you finally pull back, he has the toothiest grin on his face, “Now, what did I do to deserve that?”

“I owed you for that,” you point at his side, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Oh well, darl’,” he pulls you in closer, onto the bed with him. “If we’re talking about what you owe me… I’m going to need something for the disinfecting, that nose pinch, and something for leaving my poor injured self all alone last night.” 

You’re laughing fully, genuinely, the first time in a long time, “I’m sure we can think of something. And while we’re at it, you owe me for patching you up.”

He runs a rough thumb pad across your cheek, “Right, right. Does Roadie need me back soon?”

“I said I’d bring you back as soon as you get better,” you nuzzle up close to him, letting him drape his arm around you.

“Well, let’s take our time gettin’ better then, shall we?” He peppers your neck with kisses. 

“I owe myself that much,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss.


End file.
